Wasteland garden

My wasteland was overgrown.

Fifteen years ago, we moved into a new house in downtown Ottawa because we thought our growing family couldn’t possibly fit in our charming two bed-room apartment. Our eldest was turning two, and I was six months pregnant. The new house was surrounded by apartment towers, but it had plenty of space, with a back deck, a balcony, a detached garage and a garden. A wasteland garden.

I don’t know how long the landlord had owned the property, but he told us he was looking for steady tenants this time around, a nice family who might put down roots. He smiled at my belly and told us it was a good house but could do with some love and commitment. When I said I liked to garden, he smiled again, and we got the keys. We moved in on our daughter’s second birthday and ate cake among the moving boxes.

It didn’t take long to realize our apartment really was the right size. Heaving my heavy belly up and down all the stairs was exhausting, and our daughter didn’t like being in any of the rooms without me. Unpacking was difficult and in our first few weeks, the two of us spent as much time as we could outside.

First, I had to deal with broken glass on the porch. I swept and washed the wooden boards, then brought a small rug outside and a pile of toys so my daughter could play so I could tackle the garden itself.

A thorny mess

It was hard to tell if there had ever been any deliberate gardening there. The soil was hardpacked and dry and there was so much more broken glass. Tangles of prickly vines and ivy grew up the broken fence, and there were waist-high thistles and all manner of thorny messes. The first job would be finding the ground. Who knew if there’d be time enough afterwards to get any beans planted in time to grow that summer?

I worked, hacking through the rampant greenery while my daughter played and the baby kicked like thunder under my heart and the ground emerged very, very slowly. I got cuts and splinters, blisters from the effort of my clippers cutting through the old woody brambles and a sunburn on the back of my neck.

I wasn’t sure this was worth it. Here I was, spending my energy pulling out all the growing, green life to put in garden bags, and what remained looked dry and grim. One afternoon, I gave up. I sat on the edge of the porch and couldn’t face a moment more. My daughter sat beside me and leaned in hard, her sweaty head against my arm.

“Come on, kid. Let’s go buy some strawberries.”

Deserts can bloom

When we came home hours later, sweeter and happier with optimism renewed, we found a new plant in the garden. Someone had left a potted flower on our porch. Beside it, there was a card.

It seemed a neighbour had noticed our gardening. He lived in the apartment building behind our house and liked to sit on his balcony and watch the city. He’d never seen the house’s previous tenants – they must not have been garden people – but he was glad to see we had plans to care for the space, and he wondered if his small flower might help us as we started. I sat down on the porch again and looked up to the apartment building, but none of the balconies were occupied. I looked down at the garden in front of me. It was still over-grown and under-used, but it wouldn’t be for long. It would change, one day at a time.

Deserts can bloom, and weary places can flower. It just takes a little careful attention.